


The Despoiler's Secret

by The_LupercalXVI



Category: Warhammer 40.000, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, F/M, Gay, Gen, M/M, Other, Primarch, Redemption, Role Reversal, War, astartes, fight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21904636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_LupercalXVI/pseuds/The_LupercalXVI
Summary: A more serious, less erotic writing focusing on various things that occur when I what-if a lot at 2 AM. Some of it is based on theories made in the canon, specifically from the book Slaves of Darkness, but it's not exactly canon correct so I call it divergent. And I also kinda take off on my own little tangent after the major first event. You'll know it when you see it.
Relationships: Ezekyle Abaddon/Horus, Ezekyle Abaddon/Iskandar Khayon
Kudos: 12





	The Despoiler's Secret

Having more people on the _Vengeful Spirit_ was both a comfort and something that made Abaddon uneasy. They had their goal; get back the corpse of his Primarch from Fabius Bile, mend what they could with the Legions around them, kill those who wouldn’t comply, and get the Black Legion formally started. But they also had no idea exactly what waited for them on the Progenitor’s ship.

“We should just run in there and slaughter them all, Ezekyle,” Lheor stated, hefting his heavy bolter up and looking around with vicious hunger. A hunger for blood, a hunger for war, a hunger for fighting.

“We might,” Abaddon answered, looking at the ship in front of them through the voidport. “Honestly, I doubt the day will end without bloodshed, but even you cannot deny we need as many allies as possible. We cannot afford to go in stabbing and shooting and kill those that could be swayed to aid us. Much as I like ravaging fools…we have to be diplomatic. For now.”

There was a grunt in reply, the closest thing to acceptance Lheor would give. He stalked off a bit to the nearest training dummy, unleashing hell from his bolter and chainaxe. Abaddon let him have his method of peace while he calculated what to do. He had a half-dozen options. Open fire on Bile’s ship. Demand Bile return the corpse of Horus Lupercal. Ram the ship. Hail Bile and ask for a meeting. Hail Bile and make threats. Or hail Bile and inform him they were boarding, with or without consent. Did he even have to hail if he chose the last option?

He drummed his fingers next to the vox panels, shifting his feet a bit. He longed to pace, process what was happening while he moved around, but deep inside he felt shame for that. Horus always paced when he needed to make a major decision. Abaddon wasn’t Horus. He couldn’t emulate him. Horus was dead. Horus…was gone.

“Ezekyle?” a quiet voice called. Not the Word Bearer. Not Telemachon. Not Falkus. Definitely not Lheor. He turned and looked at the Thousand Son who carried a Space Wolf axe and walked through the halls with a spectral wolf.

“Khayon,” he said quietly, smiling. He had bonded with Iskandar Khayon quite a bit over the past year. When he called him brother, he meant it. When he said he trusted the psyker, he meant it. He had not made efforts towards affection, nor had Khayon tried those towards him, but they frequently spent time alone together. Sometimes they talked about long finished battles, sometimes they sat together in silence. It was never tense when they were together alone. But it was certainly _pleasant._

“I think we’ve given them enough warning that we are here, and we are unhappy. Bile is not a stranger to running when threatened. I think, I think we’d be wise to take action quickly.”

Abaddon considered, then nodded. “We go in mostly peaceful. There’s no need to start a war with those that might be our own.”

“He stole your Primarch’s corpse from a temple!” Lheor hissed.

“Horus Lupercal never would’ve wanted to become a god, nor did he have any love for being in temples, fanes, or anything of the like while he lived. His empty husk is not to be desecrated by becoming some religious icon. When we get his body back, I fully intend to burn it,” Abaddon answered. The look on the faces around him was somewhere between startled and offended. He ignored it. If they wanted to fight him, they could. His mind was made up.

“Is that not…against your core? That is your gene-sire—”

“Horus Lupercal is dead. His legacy is ours to shape, and the memory he left is not to be tainted by religious fervor. He wanted the galaxy to burn, and it will. Starting with the husk he left when he rushed into a fight with the Corpse-God on that damned Throne.”

Silence around him as people processed. They needed to move to get the corpse back. Bile had overstepped too many lines, regardless of whether Horus was a fool or the father of Chaos. And Abaddon wasn’t going to let Bile stand on the grounds that he could do what he wanted. The Legions had to unite if there was ever to be an end to the fight with the Imperium. Those that refused to cooperate…those would have to die. The Warp would put them in their rightful place. They certainly wouldn’t be going to the Emperor’s side anymore. A small reprieve in the madness that was their new life.

“That doesn’t change that he is your father, Abaddon,” another voice called. He knew that voice too well. Falkus Kibre, a man that had served under the Lupercal in Abaddon’s own company. A brother from long before.

 _“He was my father, Widowmaker. And he moved to a new place, therefore I no longer have a father. What he was and what he is are different things. If you cannot accept that our Primarch is dead, then I’ve no use for you at my side. I have said it as plainly as I can. What happens now is not a battle for Primarchs or demi-gods or even gods. This is a Long War, one that can only be fought by the lower castes of what was once the Imperium. Mortals, Mutants, and Astartes will shape our galaxy now. The age of the Primarchs is over,”_ Abaddon stated in Cthonic. His accent was harsh and thick, as always, but Kibre stepped back. The answer Abaddon had given was, in the least, satisfactory to him. Which was good because the next thing Abaddon had to offer was a bolter shell between the eyes.

“Then we should make haste to end Bile’s treachery,” Khayon stated. His familiar snarled, changing from regal, mother wolf to feral, raving wolf in a flicker of odd magic. Her name was Gyre, Abaddon recalled. At least, that’s what he thought Khayon had told him. There would be time later to ask about it. Now was time to act.

“We teleport and we attack if he refuses to cooperate. Should we get separated on the teleport, wait and communicate via vox to regroup. We cannot waste efforts. Gather those who will come, and may the Ruinous Powers guide us,” Abaddon stated. The men around him saluted in various ways, representing what gods they favored most and what Legions they had hailed from. Then they parted, taking various paths through the creaking halls to gather what forces they could from those that had agreed to join the Black Legion. Those that had embraced the brotherhood left behind from an era of glory.

The age of Primarchs was over, along with the age of taking oaths of moment, rituals of battle, many things that had defined the Astartes way of living. He didn’t realize how much it stung, clenching his fist as they made way to the teleportarium. It stung in places he didn’t expect. His hearts, his gut. It was all over. There was nothing left of the time of the Great Crusade save for memories that they would deny longing for. That’s what hurt the most. To be proud men of Chaos they had to leave the past behind. The echoes of what had made them who they are; they were echoes that had to fade. The pain cut into his fingers and trembled up his arms as he narrowed his eyes. It was all behind them. _Behind._ And they only had one option, as always.

Keep moving forward.


End file.
